Keeping Secrets Can Kill
by kaydi
Summary: Every newsie has a secret, a past they're running from. But for Racetrack Higgins, that secret is going to cost him much more than he thought.
1. Runaway

Pause, you who read this, and think for a moment of the long chain of iron or gold, or thorns or flowers, that would never have bound you, but for the formation of that first link on one memorable day." - Charles Dickens, Great Expectations

February 12, 1891 

"Come on! Wake up!  Its time ta get up!"  The East Queens Newsboys Lodging house echoed on its foundations as it did every morning when Gino Bentivegna stomped into the room and proceeded to wake its inhabitants by any means possible. 

            The little boy, sleeping like an angel in a lower bunk near the window, he awoke by dragging out of bed by his shirt. The boy dropped to the floor and cried out in pain, but no one noticed. The manager kicked out at the small boy before continuing to walk down the row of bunks, screaming. 

            "Hey, Tony. Get up off da flooa, kid.  Its time ta sell." A taller boy picked up the child and set him on his feet. Eight-year-old Anthony Cammarata shook his dirty brown hair and got to his feet, wincing. 

            He shivered as the tall boy led him down the cold streets of Queens, almost fifty papes under his arm. Dino Magri, or Tumbler as his friends called him, was tall, dark, and loved to laugh. It was he who had picked up little Anthony from the gutter and found him a place to sleep and a way to put food in his belly.  The two sold together almost everyday. 

            "Hey, Tony, ya okay?" Tumbler asked the shivering child. Anthony nodded, but shivered harder as they arrived at their spot.  Tumbler began calling the headlines and Anthony stood, ankle deep in snow, freezing and looking as pitiful as possible. 

            He wished Tumbler would let him call the headlines, he could think of good ones so often, but he never did.  It wasn't his job. And in the Queens newsies, you stuck to what they told you, or you get beaten. 

            Every child knew that. The leader of the Queens Newsies was a tall, hard, cold-eyed boy of sixteen years, named Carlo Avellino.  And he ruled with an iron fist. The boys called him King, because in that lodging house, there was no one else. You answered to the King before even the owner. And everyone knew it. 

            Ever since the day almost three years ago that Tumbler had brought Anthony inside the lodging house doors, King had hated the boy. He took every opportunity to beat him senseless for some trifle or another. 

            But that day, things were different.  Anthony could feel it in the air. Something was going to happen and it wasn't good. 

            He remembered that feeling from the boat. They had almost made it to America, almost, within sight of land, when his mother and father, and sisters had all given up their struggle on life and passed on.  Five-year-old Anthony was left alone in a strange new country, knowing only a few scant words of the language. 

             The wind whistled by coldly as the night came on and the two newsies made their way home. Suddenly Anthony's cap blew off his head and he turned and hurried down the street after it.  Tumbler shook his head and continued on his way, knowing the child would be all right. He was tough, like the streets required. 

            He would never see the boy again.  

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             _February 14, 1891, _

            Anthony shivered, trying to ignore the rumbling noises his stomach was making. He'd gone longer than this without food, the time King had locked him in the closet for four days, with out food or water, almost killing him. 

            Back home there was a bed, though it could hardly be called warm, and food, however scarce. But sitting on this doorstep, there was nothing. And he knew it. 

            But he couldn't go back. To go back would be to die.  King would kill him in an instant, he knew that. The boy had a quick mouth and faster fists. There was no question that if he  went back now, seeing what he had seen, hearing what he had heard, he would  be dead. And Anthony did not want to be dead. He wanted to live. But how? 

            He was too scared to steal. Horror stories about the Refuge kept him far away from that option. But soon there was no other way. He knew how to pick pockets. He'd done it back home in Italy before he'd been caught. And he'd done it many times for King, who had been delighted at the child's talent. 

            He scanned the crowd, looking for a potential victim. There, that tall boy. He seemed oblivious to the world around him, save the girl on his arm. Besides Anthony was starving. 

            Slowly, he crept through the crowds to the couple and reach lightning fast fingers into the boy's pockets. He'd grabbed the money in an instant and was about to dart away when fingers faster than his own wrapped themselves around his wrist. 

            He struggled as the boy dragged him to the side of the road.  There he shook the little boy and glared at him. 

            "I'se sorry!" Anthony wailed, turning on the pathetic tears. "I'se sorry! I'm stravin', please I'm so hungry!"  the boy watched him for an instant, before leaning down and pulling the boy to his feet. 

            "It's alright, it's alright. I've been dere before."  He smiled. "Let me guess, no family, no place to stay?" the child nodded.  "Well, I'll forgive ya dis once.   But I don't eva wanna see ya pullin' dis crap again, okay?" Anthony nodded.  "Era. " the boy handed him a coin and Anthony stared at it, his eyes wide. 

            In an instant, he'd grabbed the nickel and sped off down the street.  When he rounded the coroner, he paused and looked at the shiny coin in his hands.  Every cent he'd ever made had gone straight out of his hands and into King's. The elder boy had explained that the younger boys could not manage their money and so he put it aside for them. Anthony knew he'd never see any of it. 

            But this was his. All his. And he intended to make it last. 

            It did last, all of four days. But soon he was right back where he started, alone, and cold. He was also lost.  He'd never been allowed more than a few streets from the lodging house and his own selling spot.  King had said it was dangerous, but Anthony doubted that. 

            He shook as a harsh wind blew down the damp alley in which he was sitting. He gave a hacking cough and wrapped his arms tighter around himself. He had no coat. King had insisted that the lack of a coat would draw more pity and so little Anthony had never been given one. 

            He closed his eyes, wishing for something to eat. If he thought hard enough, he could just remember the lovely warm delicious pasta his Mama used to make, before Papa had lost his job and had moved the family from the small town of Orvieto, Italy and all five of them, Papa, Mama, Anthony's big sister Giovanna**, **and his younger sister, Ignazia had boarded a ship and set sail for the wondrous new world. 

            Of the five, only Anthony had survived the trip and seen the true wonders of the new world.  Anthony knew that as he got older, the memories would fade. The pictures he had in his mind would disappear until all he would ever know of his parents would be their names, inscribed on the gold watch his father had pressed into his hands with his dying breath, whispering the words, "Ssere coraggioso, mio figlio."  Then he had breathed his last and Anthony was left very much alone. 

            It took Anthony a moment to realize that at that instant, he was very much not alone. A pair of sharp blue eyes peered down at him, through a mop of dirty blond hair. Anthony jerked back, surprised to see a boy not too much older than himself standing over him. On his head he wore a hat, much like Anthony had seen on cowboys.  He was laughing and watching him with strange intense light eyes.  

            "Sorry, didn't meanta scare ya.  I wus  jist wonderin whut youse wus doin' jist  sittin' in an alley on dis fine day."  Anthony glared at him. 

            "It ain't none a yer bizness whut I'se doin."  Inwardly, he winced. He had never been able to keep his mouth shut in King's presence and that had earned him quite a lot of pain. 

            "I tink dat youse ain't gots no place ta go." Anthony shrugged, " Well, I know a place dat'll take ya, dat is if youse ain't got nuttin gainst bein' a newsie." 

            At this, Anthony let out a sigh of relief. At least he could do something he knew how to do. And maybe it wouldn't be so bad as in Queens.  Tricks, the boy who had taught him how to play poker had come from Brooklyn and had told him they treated their boys better there. He wondered how it would be in Manhattan. 

            He took the boys outstretched hand and got to his feet, ignoring the moaning wind.  The boy tipped his hat. "Jack Kelly." He said, leading the way through the wind. Anthony nodded, anxious to leave his name unknown.  King might be looking for him.  

            The boy, Jack paused and looked at him.  "When somebody tells ya dere name, it's polite ta tell dem yers."  Anthony nodded. 

            "I know. But I ain't neva said I wus polite." Jack seemed to accept that and led the way through the snow. 

            Soon they found themselves in front of a large wooden building that Jack shoved the door open and walked in. Anthony paused, and then followed him. Instantly a rush of warmth hit his cheeks and he rubbed his hands together. 

            He glanced around to see almost twenty boys, gathered around the room, some sitting on the stairs, some on the register desk and most on the floor, keeping away from the drafty windows. They all looked up when the door opened, and Anthony felt nervous as twenty pairs of eyes settled on him. 

            "Dere ya is, Kelly! We wus about ta send out a search pahdy." Anthony spun around at the familiar voice and froze. It was the young man he's stolen from. He backed towards the door as Jack responded. 

            "I did hurry, Hon. But I ran inta dis kid and he ain't gots no place ta stay. Cen he stay era?" the boy he'd called Hon paused.  

            "I dunno, " he said, eyeing Anthony who kept his face to the ground, letting his dark bangs fall into his eyes. "Betta ask Kloppman, I tink."  Then he turned and yelled the name at the top of his lungs. 

            Anthony froze as a tall older man in a bowler hat hurried out of the adjoining room. He took one look at Anthony and smiled.  

            "Surah, da kid can stay. But same rules apply ."  he patted Anthony on the back and took his hand, leading him to the counter. By now the boys had crowded around, eager for news on the new boy.  The boy called Hon stood next to him and Anthony would have felt terrified if not for the kind eyes of the old man and the pleasant face of the boy. 

            "My name is Kloppman, son. I run dis lodging house. Its two cents a day, but yer foist night is free. I getcha boys up in da mornin' and it's yer job ta sign in and pay every night." He handed  Anthony a log book and pointed out the names. "Can ya read and write?" Anthony nodded. 

            "A little."  He did not mention that he knew how to write very little in English, though could read far more.  The old man nodded. 

            "Den write yer name, right dere on da line." Anthony stared at him, a name? Write a name?  There was no way; he couldn't say his name, not while King was looking for him. He shivered at the memory of that horrible voice echoing down the streets. 

            "I, " he paused, " I ain't gots no name." He said, quietly. The older boy stared at him. 

            "No name?" he shook his head. 

            "Me ma and pa, dere dead.   Dey said dere was an axicent. And dey died. I don't memba nuttin befora da  hospital.  I'se sorry." He lied easily, and prayed it would work. The older boy smiled and hugged the child close. 

            "Don't worry. Since youse ain't gots a name, we'll give ya one. I'll be yer big brudda, so'se youse can be a Higgins too." He smiled and Anthony smiled back. 

            That night he fell asleep in the bunk of Justin Higgins, or Honest as the other newsies called him. Already, Anthony liked it better than Queens.      

            The next morning, Anthony felt himself being shaken on the shoulder and was instantly awake and on his feet, yanking on his shirt  before he even looked up to see Kloppman's smiling face.  He backed away from the blow he was certain would be coming, but Kloppman only moved on to another bunk, poking and prodding the boys until they rolled out of bed, grumbling as they stumbled into the washroom.  

            He watched, surprised. In Queens, no one would dare grumble or complain out loud like Jack was doing right now.  When you got up, you did as you were told.  Here, Kloppman didn't seemed to care little if the boys simply rolled over.  He just stood there, poking them with his broom until they got themselves out of bed. 

            "Go on, kid. Best get ready before the older boys use up all da hot wuda." Kloppman gently pushed him towards the washroom, where he found all the boys wandering around  the washroom, fighting over various things. 

            He quickly washed his face and reached for the towel beside him, only to find it gone.  "Can somebody pass da towel?" he asked, feeling around for it. 

            "For a buck, I might!" a  boy cried out laughing. Anthony grabbed for it and found it shoved into his hands. Quickly he dried his face and glared at the boy who Honest introduced as Skittery. He grinned and Anthony shook his hand. 

            Then Honest led him out into the streets.  "Since youse new at dis, youse going to sell wid me for a while till youse gets da hang a it, k?" Anthony nodded.  To his surprise, the older boy let him call out the headlines, and seemed proud of him as he sold his papes and made up story after story. 

            "If I didn't know bedda, I'd say youse done dis before." Anthony shook his head. And Honest decided to knock off early and take the kid to his favorite place in New York, Coney Island. 

            The two made their way down there by hitching a ride on the back of a carriage. Honest had meant to take the kid to the pier, but Anthony was instantly attracted to the noise of the races. 

            Honest had gotten his name by his personality. He was as honest as you could get. He had never been in trouble, was good to his boys, and was a born leader. The other boys  thought it was a joke, but a newsie's word was his bond and Honest Higgins always kept his word.  He was respected  in all of New York, even in Queens. If Honest said leave someone alone or fageddaboutit, you did so instantly. 

            And he could see the wonder and childhood delight in the boy's eyes as he watched the horses.  He was eighteen, but could remember simple pleasures like this were few and far between. And so he stayed and watched the horses with the boy. 

            The next morning, he put Anthony under Jack's supervision. "I'se gotta go ta Brooklyn, sort out dis trouble dey's having wid da new leada."  Everyone knew about the death of  Red Conlon. It seemed that his younger brother had taken control and some boroughs were having a hard time understanding that a twelve-year old was now in charge of the toughest boys in the city. 

            Jack had not even made it to the distribution office before he lost Anthony. "I toined around and da kid's gone!" he protested to Honest later that night. Honest rubbed his forehead, tired and grouchy. 

             The sun had set hours ago and still the kid was not back. Honest was about to send out the boys when Jack ran up the stairs, dragging the kid behind him. The boy was dirty, and smelled like horses, but he was beaming. 

            That is until he saw the look on his new leaders face.  Honest took a step forward and the kid crumbled, collapsing into a ball, wrapping his arms around his legs and ducking his head, as if to protect himself.  Honest frowned at the boy and slowly tried to uncurl him.  But he refused, 

            "I'se sorry, I'se sorry." He murmured, Honest frowned. 

            "Just relax, ain't nobody going to hoitcha. Is dat whut youse scared a? Dat someone's going to hoitcha?" he nodded, a quick move.

            "Dere ain't nobody going to hoitcha. We'se jist worried, dat's all." The boy nodded and slowly uncurled himself. Honest pulled him into a quick hug. The boy stiffened at first and then fell into the embrace. 

            After a long hug, Honest got down to business, "So where ya been?" the boy smiled. 

            "I wanted ta see da hosses. So I went ta see dem." Honest stared open mouthed at the boy. 

            "Youse tellin' me dat youse walked all da way ta Coney Island and back?" the boy nodded.  "Jist fer da racetracks?" he nodded again. 

            "Kid, I tink you jist got yerself a name. Racetrack. Racetrack Higgins."  The child's eyes opened wide and he smiled as Honest had never seen him smile. 

            "Me name is Racetrack Higgins." He whispered. "Me name. Racetrack." 


	2. The Secret

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September 16, 1899

Footsteps echo on the cold hard cobblestones. A little boy runs as fast as he can, trying to get home before they lock the doors. The night has come early in the cold winter and the streets are already dark as he trips and stumbles in the darkness.  Grumbling, he picks himself up, but not before he hears voices in the distance. 

            **_He peered around the corner of the alley. That boy, the one with the lead pipe, he knew him. What was he doing?  A whish of wind, a scream, sharp and shrill, a woman's coming from the pile of fancy cloth at the man's feet. Then a sick thump. And another. The boy watches in fear. _**

            Suddenly the man turns around. He sees the boy, and takes one step forward, his coat already stained with the blood of the girl.  The boy stumbled back, tripping over the curb and sprawling into the street.  

**_            The man raises the lead pipe, poised and ready to blind the eyes that saw him commit murder. The arm comes down-_**

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            And Racetrack sat up in bed, screaming. A second later he slammed his head into the top bunk and swore. 

            Grumbling and moans echoed from all sides of the dormitory as the twenty odd boys were pulled from slumber. Above him, Race felt Kid Blink  lean over to stare at him, a worried look in his single eye. 

            "Ya okay, Race?" Race glanced up to see Jack, all grown up, stare down at him. he nodded and waved his friends away, rubbing his forehead where the iron bed had connected with it. 

            Slowly, he heard Blink turn over and adjust himself on the top bunk. The other boys who had not already, were on their way to slumber, all but Jack. Race glanced up to see Jack frowning down at him. 

            "Ya surah youse okay?" Race nodded. 

            "Yeah, jist a dream. Dat's all." He rolled over and pulled the blankets over his head. Just a dream, a dream that had one day been a reality. 

 Race felt a little shaken from the dream, but he pushed it to the side.  That life was over. As far as New York was concerned, Anthony Cammarata was dead.  And that was fine with Race. 

He wiped his forehead as he leaned against the gates in Central Park, his personal selling spot.  It was promising to be hot already and he'd only sold five papes. Maybe Jack and the boys would be up for a swim later.  Mush and Blink almost always were anyway. 

He tucked his papes under his arm and began shouting the headlines, his sixteen year old voice carrying across the street with practiced ease.   "Extry! Extry!" he shouted, over the din of horses, and people, and carriages and those damned horseless carriages only a few rich folks had.  

 One puttered by him and Race waved his hand in front of his face to clear the putrid smoke. He wrinkled his nose and decided that a stroll through the park might help him sell the rest of his papes. He slipped them over a string tied over his shoulder, like Jack had taught him so long ago. It left his hands free at least. 

As he made his way through the park, he felt the cool air from the river drift in to cool himself down. He sold a few papes to people passing and smiled at the change in his pocket. Maybe, he'd have enough to wander up to the tracks later, though it was a hot one. 

It was about this time that he heard the shouts coming from up the path. He frowned and hurried around the corner, just in time to see a big man shove little Snipeshooter to the ground. 

The little newsie slept in the bed beside Race and was constantly stealing his cigars. But Race's blood boiled when he saw a kid getting beat in the street. And after all, they were both Lower Manhattan boys. 

"Stop it!" he shouted as the tall man picked up the small boy once again. At the sound of his voice, he dropped the boy and turned to face this new intruder. Snipeshooter was a street smart kid and knew when to get away. He was on his feet and behind Race in an instant. 

Race glared at the tall man, knowing full well that he was still rather scrawny, despite Jack's repeated assurances that he might still grow.  If they were pitted against each other, Race would be out in an instant. He'd bet on it. But that didn't stop him from trying. 

The man turned to face the boys and Race saw his face for the first time.  He drew in a deep breath at the sight of the man he never wanted to see again.  There was a glimmer in old King's eyes as he looked at this new boy, but Race did not give him the chance. 

He seized the front of Snipeshooter's front and literally hauled him down the path and out of the park as fast as he could. His feet moved faster than they had in a long time and Snipeshooter could do little but try his best to keep up.  Finally, Race stopped on Broadway and both boys paused to catch their breath.  Race glanced back to make sure they weren't being followed, made sure Snipeshooter was alright and marched down the street, before placing himself at the corner and letting his voice ring across the streets. Snipeshooter just shook his head and gathered up his papes and headed off to find Jack. 

That night Race laughed with his friends, the encounter of the day all but forgotten. At the moment, he, Blink, Mush, Specs, and Skittery were involved in low stakes game of gin on the stairs, Crutchy watching from beside him. 

Jack was showing Davy how to make a strap for his papes across the room. Kloppman was deeply involved in a heated debate with Spot, who was spending the night, about whether or not he should pay for his room. It was a quiet perfectly normal evening in the Lower Manhattan Newsboys Lodging house, and it was the way Race loved it. 

But the routine was roughly shattered by the door bursting open to reveal several large fellows, with, to Race's horror, King in the lead.  In an instant, Race was up the stairs and inside the dorm room. He looked around franticly for a hiding place as voices began to rise downstairs. Then footsteps on the stairs. 

Race panicked and wrenched open the window, diving out onto the fire escape.  There he curled into the smallest ball possible just as the door opened.  He could hear King's loud grumbling, Spots sarcastic replies, and Jack's patient voice. 

"Now dat we're alone. What are ya doin' in dis part a town, King?" Jack said. Race knew he had little love for the Queens leader, Spot even less.  But they would tolerate him on the rare occasion. Still, storming into another lodging house without warning was uncalled for, and Jack was bound to get to the bottom of it. 

"I'se looking' fer one a me boys."  There was a pause. 

"What makes ya tink he's ea?" Jack asked, his voice soft. Race knew that was when he was the most dangerous. 

"I saw him taday, sellin' in yer territory. He's ea." 

            "Well, who is he so we'se can get ta da bottom a dis and settle it fast."  Spot of course, only he would be that impatient. 

            "Short kid, dark hair and eyes, Italian. Goes by Anthony Cammarata." Race winced.  There was a long pause as the two leaders thought it over, 

            "Da only Italian we'se got is Racetrack, and dat ain't him." Race shook his head, _why did ya have ta mention me name, Jack?_ He moaned inwardly. 

            "Higgins?" King laughed, "yeah, I hoid a da kid. Gambla, ain't he?  Ol' Honest took him in.  Shame about da axident and all."  Race would have bet his life savings that King was smirking and that Spot was holding Jack back, or vise versa.  

            The accident involving Honest's death was still a touchy subject with all the newsies even though it was almost seven years old. It had been sudden, swift, and horrible. Race had been there that day.  One moment Honest was waving to them and crossing the road, the next he lay on the ground, remaining where he had fallen under the wheels of the speeding cabby who didn't even look back. 

            Race shivered and forced himself to forget.  "Anyway, I know dat kid's ea.  And no boy a mine runs away from his family and gets away wid it.  I'll give ya one week, Kelly. One week, and if dat kid ain't back in da East Queens Lodging house by Monday, den youse bedda look out. Youse too, Conlon." Then he heard footsteps on the stairs and the door close.  He snuck a peek in the window and saw Jack seated on Race's bed, his face in his hands. Spot was seated next to him on Snipes bed. They both looked frightened and helpless. 

              Race did the only thing he could and he swung down from the fire escape and went to the only place where he knew he could talk to someone and find some answers. 

            Irving Hall was lit up in the early evening, a bright beckon on the darkening streets. Race hurried past the main doors and down an alley to the side entrance of the vaudeville hall that he knew he'd be permitted through.  

            Every newsie in Lower Manhattan knew it was there and had used it at one time or another. This place was an unspoken refuge for any one who needed a place to stay, food, or just someone to talk to. 

            Race slipped inside, ducking behind a curtain as he waited for the music onstage to end. He knew it was early and he'd have a while to wait. Usually he waited outside, and smoked. But tonight, being alone, even in bright streets like this, scared him. Besides, light had never frightened King before, and Race doubted eight years had changed that fact. 

            Carelessly, he lit a cigarette and slumped down on an overturned bucket.  Taking a deep calming breath did a bit to calm his nerves, but he was still jumpy, proved all too clearly when a hand touched his shoulder and leapt to his feet. 

            Medda Larkson, in her late thirties and surrogate mother to all the newsies in Lower Manhattan, had just stepped off stage in her vaudeville theater, when she saw one of her favorite boys, Racetrack. 

            He looked worried and was smoking a cigarette instead of his usual cigar.  He must be worried, she thought, Race never smoked a cigarette if he could help it, preferring the larger thicker cigars that lasted much longer than his cigarettes did. 

            She approached him and gently touched his shoulder.  The boy shot to his feet and whirled around, staring frightened, his arms up and ready. Medda threw up her hands and Race dropped his arms. 

            "Oh, sorry. I jist, I mean, I…" Race trailed off, dropping onto the bucket once again. It took Medda less than three seconds to realize something was wrong. This was not the usual carefree cynical Italian she had come to know and love since Jack had brought the young boy over when he was only eight years old. 

            "Come on back and have some coffee. Then you can tell me about it."  He followed her like a child, down the hall and up the stairs. She paused on the way to tell her boys to close up early tonight.  Then she opened the door to her own apartment, just above her theatre. 

            She led Race to the couch while she slipped into her bedroom to change out of that ridiculous pink dress and into a simple blouse and skirt.  When she came out, she saw Race, unmoving but staring off into space, wringing the hell out of his poor cap. 

            Gently she took it out of his hands and pushed a cup into them.  Race took the coffee gratefully. Only Medda know how to make the warm rich coffee that reminded him so much of another woman, a woman he had known long ago whose face was only a dim fuzzy memory, who made the same drink while the sun rose over the hills and the walls surrounding the small town. 

            "Now, what brings you all the way up here?" she asked. Race took a deep breath. Could he tell her? He'd never told a living soul what he had seen that night, no one. As for as he was concerned, that boy was dead, like someone you hear of and feel sad for but forget the next instant. That night only a dream, a nightmare that only lived in the strange place between sleeping and awake. But the dream was real and it was coming back to haunt him. 

            "Well, I gots dis friend."  He said, unsure of just where to begin. "And dis friend, he's got a problem. See, when he wus a kid, he saw sumdin. Somdin he weren't apposed ta see. Somdin really bad." 

            "How bad?" Race glanced at her. 

            "About as bad as it gets." He whispered, "And da guy who was doin' it, he saw da kid, tried ta-" Race's voice cracked and he couldn't go on. "But da kid, he got away. Ran away and made a new life fer hisself. A new name, a new life. And he figures dat's all ova wid. But da guy, he finds da kid. And now da kid is stuck. If he stays, his friends are in danga. If he goes, it's his skin. God Medda, whudda I do?" he moaned, dropping his head into his hands once again. Medda had not missed the transaction from him to I, and frowned. 

            "Well, first we need to get our facts straight. Tell me exactly what you saw that night." Race lifted his head and stared at her, his eyes wide. 

            "I ain't neva told nobody. Neva. I tought, dat maybe if I nava said nuttin, dat it would go away, dat it neva happened." He pulled his knees up to his chest and wrapped his arms around them. 

            "Can you tell me?" Race shook his head.  Medda watched him, as the sixteen year old bit his lip, looking more like a child than anything. 

            "Can't tell nobody. He'll kill me." he whispered, Medda frowned, confused. 

            "Who? Who'll kill you?"  Race began to rock back and forth and Medda began to get the impression that she was no longer speaking to Racetrack. 

            "King. He hates me, beat me bad da udda day fer not gettin' up in time." 

            "And what's your name?" the boy's eyes were strangely blank. Not a hint of his usual laughter or mischief gleamed in them. Only dull pain. 

            "Anthony, but me mudda called me Tony. I like dat bedda." 

            "Where is your mother, Tony?" 

            "Dead, she and pa. Dey died and left me all alone.  Tumbler found me and brought me 'ea. But King, he don't like me and he'll kill me if he finds me. He won't find me, will he?" she shook her head, and wrapped her arms around the shaking boy. 

            "No, of course not.  Just tell me, why does he want to kill you?" 

            "Because I saw him do a bad ting." 

            "What did you see him do?" There was a long pause. Then Race's shaky childlike voice spoke again. 

            "I didn't mean ta see, but when I hoid da screams, I had ta go see. It wus King and he had his goil, some rich broad on da ground. He wus standin' ova her and holdin' a pipe. He hit 'ea again and again until she stopped screamin'. Den he turned around and saw me. He chased me, tellin' me he'd kill me if he eva caught me. He won't eva catch me, will he?" 

            Medda held the boy tight and shook her head. "No, he won't. He'll never hurt you."  She rocked him softly before one last question came to her. "Tony, the girl, do you remember her name?"  

            The boy looked up at her, tiredly.  He shrugged. "Allissa, we'se called her Lissy. I dunno her last name, sumtin' French soundin'. De Bar or sumdin. She wus a rich broad, always brought us candy." 

            Medda nodded and let him slip his head into her lap. It didn't take long before he was fast asleep. Medda got up as quietly as possible and removed Race's shoes and jacket, laying them out on the chair in front of him. Then she covered him with a thick blanket. Backing away, she noticed how much younger the usually cynical loud mouthed newsie looked when he was sleeping. Like a little dark angel. 

            Slowly she slipped into her own room where she dug under her bed and pulled out an old hat box. Upon opening it, she pulled several scraps of paper, newspaper clippings, old photographs and the like, until she found the one she was looking for. 

            It was a review of a much younger Medda, and when she flipped it over, the story on the other side held a startling headline. 

**_Mayor's Niece killed in alley in East Queens_****_. _**

**_Allissa Du Bar, 16, clubbed to death in an alley in the east end of Queens. No witnesses._**

            Medda stared at it, just as she had that night eight years ago. No witnesses? No, there was one. Just a child, but one who could tell the story. 


	3. Jack's Decision

Jack paced up and down the dormroom floor, hands clasped behind his back and a cigarette dangling from his lips. None of the boys said a word, just watching him, some eyes straying to the empty bunk below Blink. 

            There was a thick tension in the air, making the boys jump at odd noises. It was late, so very late when Kloppman poked his head into the room and ordered them to bed.  But Jack couldn't sleep. Instead he fled to the roof. 

            He sat there, smoking quietly, a conversation spoken years ago on this very roof playing through his head. 

_            "Jack?" Jack turned towards to the younger voice to see little Racetrack. The boy's eyes were red from crying and he seemed nervous as if the shadows were about to leap out and grab him. Jack could hardly doubt the boy was scared. _

_            His protector was gone and even little boys had demons. This boy more so than usual. He took Racetracks hand and pulled him closer. _

_            "Yeah Race?" he asked.  _

_            "Is Honest in heaven?" Jack sighed. Heaven, interesting place it had to be. It was where they said his mother had gone. If anyone deserved it, it was old Honest. _

_            "Yeah." Race gave a small sniffle. _

_            "Whose going to protect me now?" Jack turned and faced the small boy. _

_            "I'se gonna protect ya.  I'll be y er big bruddah, and I'll look out fer youse." Race smiled. _

_            "Really? I ain't neva had a bruddah before." _

_            Jack smiled. "Well, ya gots one now. And I promise, I'll always take cae a ya, and I'll always be dere fer ya. Not ta mention, I'll soak anyone who tries ta mess widcha!" he raised his fists and mock punched Race who laughed.  Then he had curled up next to Jack and  fallen asleep in his arms. Jack looked down at the tiny innocent boy in his arms and knew in that instant that he would never want to hurt him, and that he would protect him no matter what. They were brothers, and nothing less. _

            Jack sighed. Brothers. He still looked out for Race. A month ago when Pulitzer had tried to offer him a bribe, and warned him that he'd throw his friends into the Refuge, Jack thought of Race. He had done his best to see that Race never saw the inside of that horrible place. In the three years since his escape, he'd done all in his power to keep Race out of trouble, though it was hardly trouble from the cops that Race got into. 

            He felt odd, looking at Race now and still seeing the troubled eight-year old he'd dragged into the lodging house so long ago. His little brother was sixteen, almost all grown up and perfectly able to take care of himself. But still, Jack worried. He always stayed up when Race was late coming from the tracks, just to make sure the boy hadn't gotten himself soaked again. But this was different. 

            Once King had left, Jack had gathered his boys together and asked them all the same question, " Do any a ya know a' a Anthony Cammarta?" the answer was the expected negative. When he'd looked for Racetrack, who knew almost every newsie who had ever played against him, he never forgot a face, a poker face that is, no one could find him.  No one had seen him leave, and no one had seen him come back. 

            That was almost four hours ago, Race was gone and Jack was worried. 

            It took another day before Jack found himself, still without a Racetrack, seated in the washroom, as it was raining, alone. The boys had all been sent out to look for him, with little luck. They'd searched from Brooklyn to Coney Island with little luck and now Jack was more worried than ever.

            What if King had made good his threat early? But this wasn't his style. He liked people to see what he had done. To fear him.  Just as Jack was about to get to his feet and walk the streets one more time, the window opened and Race climbed in. 

            Race opened his eyes to see a setting sun. He frowned, where was he? Uncurling, he found himself on a rather comfortable sofa, covered in a thick blanket. For an instant he could not remember where he was, then it came back to him. He'd gone to Medda's after King had left. He took a deep breath, trying to clear his mind. After he'd arrived was fuzzy and Race wondered if he'd had something to drink, though he rarely drank at all. He'd seen how it could ruin a man. 

            The door opened and Medda strolled in, smiled. "How are you feeling?" she pushed back his bangs to feel his forehead. He frowned and groaned. 

            "Like a trolley jist ran ova me." she smiled. 

            "I know the feeling. Why don't you head back to the lodging house and let Jack know you're alright." Race nodded and pulled on his jacket. 

            The rain fell harder the second Race stepped out the door. He groaned, but it wasn't anything he had never done before. As he walked through the vacant streets in the light of the street lamps, Race thought hard. He had told Medda, but could he tell Jack? Should he tell Jack? And if he did, what would he say?

            He found himself on Duane Street much faster than he had expected. He sighed and made his way up the street, to the lodging house at the end of the street. 

            He was not paying attention and that was a mistake, he knew. But there was too much in his head not to be a bit out of it. He paid for it though, when a large hand grabbed him by the throat and slammed him into a nearby alley wall. 

            Race's head spun as he fought to see his attacker, but a blow to the stomach and a slamming of his head against the wall stopped any retaliation he might have made. There was another sharp kick to his side and another head slam before he fell to the ground. 

            But during his experience, Race had learned that this was the worst possible position to be in, and he scrambled for something, anything to hit the man with. His hand reached a wooden plank and he grabbed it, smacking it against the man's thighs.  

            The angry assailment gave a roar and stepped back, just before delivering a punch to Race's eye that sent him spiraling back and forced his head to impact with the wall once again. This time Race slumped against the wall, dazed. 

            The man slammed his fist into him one more time before growling, "Dis is a warning fer Kelly. Tell him dat dis is gonna happen ta every one a his boys if King ain't happy." Then with one final kick, the man sped off. 

            Race slowly climbed to his feet, wincing and swaying slightly. He stumbled to the lodging house and groaned when he saw the closed door. It was locked. That meant one thing. Race had to climb to the fire escape.  Diffidently not his favorite thing to do, especially in this state, but he did it. 

            As quietly as he could, he eased open a window, praying that no one was asked and climbed inside. He was cold, wet, and bruised. All he wanted to do was curl up in his own bed and forget everything, but as he moved through the washroom to the bunkroom, someone stirred. 

            "Race?" Race spun around to see Jack, standing there looking both furious and relieved. Race panicked, he couldn't let Jack see him like this, he'd panic too. He backed into the shadows, trying to hide his face, which was probably already beginning to bruise. 

            "Heyya Jack."  He said softly. Jack stepped forward and Race could see that he was not happy. Memories came back, rushing through his mind. Had he remained in East Queens, he would have been beaten horribly. But Jack had never hit him, never. He had promised not to, so very long ago and he had kept his word. But the fear still remained in Race for reasons unknown. 

            "Where ya been, Race?" jacked asked, keeping his voice down so as not to awaken his other boys. Race shrugged. 

            "Went ta Medda's, fell asleep. Sorry." Jack was probably raising an eyebrow, but Race couldn't tell. 

            "Medda's? Any reason?" Race shrugged. Then he began to make his way through to the darkened dormroom. But Jack wasn't finished. 

            "Ya can't jist run off like dat, Race. We wus worried. I mean, ya hoid bout King and everytin'." Race paused, knowing he should act like he knew nothing. 

            "No." Jack frowned. 

            "But youse was dere when he came in, I saw ya. Den ya ran upstairs." Race bit his lip, pausing. His head was swimming and he was finding it harder and harder to come up with an excuse.

            "I don't memba." He said quietly, pausing to rub his temples, which were throbbing as well as the back of his head. He took his cap off and rubbed the back of his head, feeling a lump already rising. 

            "He ain't happy, dat's for surah. And he's lookin' fer somebody. A kid, Anthony Cammarata. Ya know him?" Race stared at him, refusing to answer,  his breath coming faster, shorter. The question, the question he had never wanted to be asked, and now was wanting nothing more than to forget it had ever been asked.  

            He pretended he had never heard the question and made his way slowly to his bunk. But Jack would not be ignored. He flipped on the lights, causing groans to erupt from every corner of the room, as newsies were roused from their peaceful dreams. 

            "Don't ya ignora me, Race!" Jack shouted, causing several heads to go up. Race hadn't moved since the lights had gone up.  The shadows no longer gave him cover and he couldn't stop his shoulders from shaking slightly.  

            "Please Jack." He begged, his voice small and shaky, "Please don't eva ask me dat again."  

            Jack had hurried up behind him and grabbed his arm, spinning him around. In the process, Race's head spun worse than ever and he was glad Jack was holding his arm or he would have fallen. However, Jack had seen what Race didn't want him to see, a cut lip, a bruised cheek, and the beginning of a black eye. 

            "Jesus Christ Race, " Jack whispered, "what happened ta yer face?" Race didn't look at him, couldn't look at him. The room was spinning faster and faster, Race couldn't keep up with it and closed his eyes, not feeling it as his legs gave out and he slipped into unconsciousness 

            The first thing he noticed when he awoke was the warm cloth on his forehead. He blinked and frowned as he saw Jack bending over him, Mush, Blink, and the others behind him. He groaned and touched his forehead. 

            "How ya feelin'?" Jack asked, his voice soft and apologetic. Race sighed. 

            "Like I jist got kicked by a hoss." He mumbled.  He rummaged in his pockets and Jack held up an already lit cigar. Race took it and took a deep puff. It felt good. 

            "What happened?" Jack asked. "Ya didn't loose anudda bet, didya?" it was common knowledge that Race had gotten into several tight spots in his history of gambling.  But Race shook his head. 

            "Some bum wus waitin' outside. He said dat  it wus a massage from King ta youse, dat if ya didn't daliva dat dis would happen ta all yer boys." He said quietly. He looked up at Jack, who looked so sorry. 

            "King?" Race nodded. Jack frowned deeply and pressed the damp cloth against Race's forehead again. Race sighed and closed his eyes. 

            "Why didn't ya want me ta ask ya dat question Race?" Jack asked. Race opened his eyes and stared at the boy he called brother. He inhaled again, trying to make up his mind. Medda said to tell Jack, she said it would be good.  And it just might save his life. But that would mean admitting to having lied, to having a past, to being someone other than Racetrack Higgins. That would mean bringing up memories that were better left hidden. 

            But what if King did this to one of his friends? What if it had been Blink coming home late, or Mush, or Davy, or one of the little boys, Boots, Snipes, Pint, Les? Then where would he be? The only one who could solve this was Race, he was the only one with the power, who knew the truth. If someone else knew, then maybe, just maybe, it would make things a little easier. 

            Race took a deep breath, and sighed. "Because, Jack," he said, " I know da answer. " 

            Jack stared at him. "Ya know dis kid?" Race nodded. "Who is he? Is he hea? Now?" Race nodded again.  "Where?" 

            "Youse lookin' at him.' Race said it softly, sealing his fate. Jack's eyes narrowed, then widened as he understood. There was a round of gasps as each boy realized it too.   

            "Ya mean, dat's you? He's lookin' fer you?" Race nodded. "Why?" 

            "I used ta be one a' his boys. But I left." Jack frowned, there was something Race wasn't saying. 

            "Why did ya leave?"  Race shuddered. 

            "I couldn't take it anymoa. Ya would't a edda Jack. It's woise den da Refuge." Several boys gasped and Jack drew back. He was the only one to have experienced the Refuge, and he would know the most. Upon his return all those years ago, he remembered one thing the most that night. 

            _"Dose tings are going to kill ya, Race." Race smiled at his long lost brother and put his cigar back in his mouth. . _

_            "I don't cae. Besides, it's a special occasion. Me brudda's back from da Refuge." Jack laughed at the thirteen year old. He had missed this. Six months was far too long. Six months wasted.             _

_            "So how ya been?" he asked Race. Race shrugged. Jack saw his grin fade as they watched the setting sun sink below the horizon. There was silence for a long time. _

_            "We get along." Race replied. Jack shook his head and put a hand on Race's shoulder. _

_            "I know how dey's been. How a' ya been?" Race frowned. Jack sighed. Race took another puff and flicked the almost used cigar away. _

_            "I tought I lost ya." His words were quiet, but Jack heard him loud and clear. He put his arm around the younger boy and pulled him close. The two shared a brotherly embrace. Then they resumed watching the sun set. _

_            "Is it really dat bad?" Race asked. "Ya know, like no food, beatin's, woik? Is it really as bad as dey say?"  Jack turned to him, fear in his heart. A new goal for life entered his mind. To keep Race out of there. To never let him see the inside of those walls. _

_            "Race, promise me sumdin." Race nodded, sensing the importance of this vow. _

_            "Surah Jack." _

_            "Promise me, ya'll neva get youseself trown in dere. Promise me." Race nodded. "Say it!" Jack growled. He needed to know. Race backed away a bit; he always did back off a bit when one of the boys, especially Jack, yelled at him. He nodded quickly._

_            "I promise, Jack." Jack let out a deep breath and put an arm around Race. _

_            "So tell me what happened since I'se been gone."_

            "How would ya know dat?" Jack asked. Race turned his face up and Jack was horrified at what he saw. Instead of the mischief and laughter that was always shining in Race's eyes, there was fear. Pure and simple horror. 

            "I know, Jack, I know." The words were simple, yet they held so much weight. Race swallowed. "I can't go back. Ya can't let him take me back!" he turned those fearful eyes on Jack full blast. Jack replaced the damp cloth, just to tear his gaze away from those eyes. 

            "Don't worry, Race." He said soothingly, " I ain't lettin' him take ya anywhere." Race nodded 

            "Promise me." he begged. Jack remembered those words and he looked back at Race, and his haunted eyes. Slowly he nodded. 

            "I promise." Race let out a deep breath and settled back. The instant his eyes were closed, Jack sprung into action. 

            "Blink, Mush, go ta Brooklyn. Get Spot and tell him ta bring a couple a his boys. Go!" the two boys were out of the room in a flash. "Specs, Bumlets, go ta Davy's. Tell him not ta sell tamorra.  And ta get ea as soon as possible." Specs only paused to grab his hat and the two were outside and running down the street, moving too fast for anyone to catch them. 

"Everyone else! Get back ta bed!" no one complained as they all crawled back into their bunks and Jack doubted anyone was getting back to sleep that night. Kloppman placed a comforting hand on Jack's arm before slipping downstairs to make some coffee for himself and Jack, he sensed it would be a long night for the both of them. 

            Jack did not move from Race's side, and only moved to replace the cloth on his forehead, or to place a comforting hand on Race's shoulder as the boy mumbled in his sleep. 

            He didn't like this, not one bit. But now that he knew who King wanted, he had to get Race out of his reach as soon as possible. And what better place to hide than in Brooklyn. Spot would hide him, that Jack knew. He was friends with Race too, though it was a bit shaky every time Race beat him in poker. Still Spot would not turn him away.

            And yet, there was something Race wasn't saying. He'd known others to leave King's band and never be bothered again. Race must have done something to offend the East Queens Leader. Something bad. Still, he had to do something. He couldn't just let it go, but Race was having a hard enough time as it was. 

            Just give him a few days, then ask him. Jack nodded, yes that sounded good. He touched Race's forehead and sighed as Race mumbled in his sleep and winced. He had to protect his little brother, at all costs. Even if it meant sending him away. 


	4. Close Call

Sorry this part's kind of short. The next scene is really important and I don't want to split it up. 

Thanks for the reviews, oh and Lysaka? Just to clearify something. They did have cars in 1899, they were invented in the 1880's, but they were very scarce until the early 1900's. Trust me, my Dad is a college history Professor. *  grins*  very nice for history homework. 

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            One of the things Spot Conlon hated the most in life was waking up before he had to. Needless to say, he was not very happy at being shaken awake at three in the morning. He grumbled and rolled over, prepared to give his waker a piece of his mind. 

            However, Kid Blink was not the person he was expecting to see. He opened his eyes fully awake now, and sat up. Behind him, Mush shifted, uneasy under the gaze of the Brooklyners who had just been roused from their sleep and were no more happy than their leader. 

            "Blink? Mush?  What are youse doin' ea?" Blink frowned. 

            "Race is back." Spot shrugged. That was hardly news. He'd known Race would come back. He always did. 

            "So?"   

            "So he knows de answa. Ta King's question." Spot was out of bed in an instant. He dressed quickly and waved to his three best boys. 

            "Tricks, Red, Dreams, come on." The three boys did not argue as they followed Spot and his Manhattan friends out into the chilly night air. As they made their way through the dark streets and across the large steel monster of a bridge that connected Manhattan and Brooklyn, Blink and Mush explained what happened. 

            Spot was shocked to find the truth about Race, "He wus one a King's boys?" East Queens and Brooklyn had never been on good terms for Spot and though Race had left years ago, he was still from there. 

            "But he's Jack's boy now," Blink told him rather firmly. Spot nodded, no need to jump on Race for a past mistake. God knows he'd made plenty of them himself. 

            The five boys made their way down the streets until they reached the lodging house. They entered to find almost all of the boys awake and down in the lobby, Kloppman handing out cups of milk, coffee, or water, or anything else. Spot had only seen the boys this quiet once, almost two months ago. 

            "Where's Jack?" he asked. Jack looked up from the steps and handed his mug to Skittery. Then he pulled Spot aside. 

            "Blink and Mush tell ya?' Spot nodded. "Den you'll undastand da fava I gotta ax ya." Spot frowned. 

            "Where's Race?" he asked. Jack frowned and pointed upstairs. 

            "Sleepin' when I left him. Look Spot, ya gotta do me dis fava." Spot nodded. 

            "What?" Jack took a deep breath. 

            "Take Race wid ya back ta Brooklyn." Spot stared at his friend. He had never known Jack to let Race out of his sight when there was danger. Now he was all but begging him to take the boy he thought of as his brother. He narrowed his eyes and frowned. 

            "Back ta Brooklyn? Will he go?' Jack shrugged. 

            "Don't madda.  He'll go. He needs ta hide fer a while, till I can sort dis ting out wid King. Till den, I want Race oudda danga." 

            "Brooklyn's hardly a place ta go if ya wanna stay oudda danga." Spot reminded him. Jack sighed. 

            "But it's da poifect place ta go if ya need ta dissapea. Jist take him, Spot." Spot fiddled with the key around his neck. 

            Just as he was about to answer, a horrible crash sounded from upstairs. Jack had leapt over the railing and was up the stairs before anyone could say a word. The rest of the newsies followed him.  

            Jack had thrown open the door to the bunkroom and turned on the lights in an instant, but then he stopped, frozen where he was. The other boys slammed into him as they met the gaze of the tall burly boy with the scar over his eye and his hands wrapped around Race's neck. 

            Race himself, was still struggling, still trying to get the hands away from his neck so he could breathe. His black eye was more profound now and he winced as the boy tightened his hold. 

            The boy noticed the other boys and stared at them for an instant before turning back to Race and flipping out a small pocketknife and holding it to the boy's throat. Instantly Race stopped moving as the man grabbed the back of his head and pull back, exposing his pale throat. 

            Jack froze again, unable to move. The boy grinning, showing his yellowed teeth and forced the knife to Race's throat, drawing a small line of red that trickled down his throat.  

            No one had said a word, not until now. "Leave him alone!" Jack yelled, stepping forward. The man tightened his hold on Race's hair and yanked. Race winced and Jack paused. 

            "Take one mora step and I'll cut his troat." The boy hissed. Suddenly Spot pushed forward and brought his own secret weapon to aim. The marble flew through the air, slamming into the knife and sending it flying across the room. The boy looked horrified for an instant, and Race visibly relaxed. 

            But the boy still had a hold of Race and he threw him back forcefully, slamming his head into the metal bar of the bunk bed. Race's eyes widened, then closed as he fell forward onto the bed. The boy dropped him and spirited across the room, and diving out the open window onto the fire escape. Jack was after him in a flash, diving to the window and watching, his fists clenched in anger as the boy darted down the street. 

            "Jack, ya bedda get ova ea." Spot's voice called to him. Jack turned and made his way slowly to Race's bunk. 

            Race was sprawled across the bunk, blood still dripping from the cut in his throat, his eyes closed. Jack gently picked up Race's head and cradled him gently. Slowly rocking him back and forth, Jack turned his gaze on Spot. 

            "Please, Spot?" This time Spot did not argue as he nodded. Jack turned his attention back to Race and placed a damp cloth on his forehead, wiping away the blood and sweat. 

            Race moaned then, turning everyone's attention back to him. He touched his forehead and his hands instantly went to his throat. His eyes opened and he stared around. Jack quickly put his arms around him and comforted the boy, who relaxed as soon as he heard Jack's voice. 

            "Jack?' he asked, his voice raw and scratchy. "Where's Whip?" Jack frowned. 

            "Dat boy? Ya knew him?" Race nodded. 

            "He pulls all a King's jobs, ya know? Wheneva he wants somebody bumped off, he sends Whip. Does da job right. I neva thought he'd be afta me." Race sighed and pulled himself into a sitting position.  He instantly regretted it and touched his head, groaning as he felt the lump join the others. 

 Jack frowned, "Ya okay?" he asked. Race nodded slowly. 

"I'll live." Jack nodded, 

"Den I want ya ta get dressed and go wid Spot. Once ya get dere, ya ain't ta go anywhere widout tellin' Spot. In fact, I want ya ta stay in da lodging house. Ya undastand?" Race frowned. 

"What? Ya sendin' me away, Jack?" Jack turned from the plaintive look on Race's face and looked at Spot. 

"Spot?" Spot nodded, silently promising to do all in his power to keep Racetrack safe. 

"I know, Jack." He said. 

"Jack?" Race's voice raised just a bit as he looked from Spot to Jack.  Jack refused to look at him, trying to forget how much Race sounded like the little  boy from so long ago.  

"Jist go wid Spot." Then he turned and made his way downstairs. Spot followed him. 

"I'll leave one a' me boys ea. Jist in case somebody's watchin' da joint. A' ight?"  Jack nodded.   Spot motioned to Red, who nodded and stepped back. 

 The other two Brooklyners lifted Race out of bed and slipped under his arms, supporting his slight weight. Race cast one last glance at Jack's shadow in the doorway as they walked down the stairs and out the door, but said nothing. He lacked the energy. 

Spot let the long walk back to Brooklyn. The sun was rising as they entered the Brooklyn Lodging House. He pulled their manager, Connelly aside and informed him of Jack's orders that Race not leave. Then he walked upstairs, his boys following him. 

The others were just getting up, getting dressed. Race noticed that it was a great deal like Manhattan. The boys lowered him to a bunk where he lay back. Dimly he heard Spot talking to his boys, but Race didn't care. He was too tired to care. 

He felt someone draw a blanket over him and place a packet of cigarettes by the bunk before the boys slipped downstairs, all but Spot, who stretched out on the bunk beside Race. Race ignored him and closed his eyes, willing sleep to come. It did and he drifted off, allowing himself to do the much needed and forget. 

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	5. The End

Happy Easter!

I decided to post this before we go to my aunt's house. By the time I get home, I'll have eaten way too many jellybeans to comprehend the funny little buttons on the computer. 

This part is the part I didn't want to split up. It's the confrontation between Race and King. So hold onto your hats! There's a cliffhanger at the end!

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September 24, 1899

The hours slowly turned into days, and Racetrack found himself quite at home with the Brooklyn boys. Not that he hadn't known them before; Brooklyn and Manhattan were always on the best terms out of all the New York boroughs. 

He had managed to bum a pack of cards off of someone and spent the majority of his time playing with himself or someone else. He found that Connelly, the manager, was quite fond of the game, gin, and so the two spent hours playing. 

Yeah, Race liked it there. But it wasn't his home.  And the little problem of keeping him inside all the time was getting very old. Spot wouldn't even let him on the roof alone, much less out in the city. The Brooklyn leader took his promises very seriously, and that meant sticking to every word.  And that meant that Race was doomed to lead an indoor life. 

Race longed for the races, for his Central Park selling spot, for the nightly fights at the Manhattan lodging house, for going to Tibby's with the boys, or Medda's, for surprise nights at the Jacobs's, and seeing Davy and Les. He longed for all those things, and more. And so one night, he decided he'd had enough. 

It was five days after his flight that he woke up late in the evening, to hear Spot talking quietly beside his bunk. He was talking to one of his boys, sounding worried and unnerved. Race pretended to still be sleeping, but he listened. 

"Are ya surah?' Spot's voice was insistent. The boy shrugged. 

"I told ya, Spot. It's jist what I hoid." 

"Did they say which one?" Race turned over, as if in his sleep, but kept his eyes closed.  Spot and the boy paused for an instant, but after Race did not move, they went back to talking. 

"Yeah, Kelly." Race froze at the sound of Jack's name. What about Jack? Had he gotten hurt? 

"Nah, Jacky-boy ain't dumb enough ta get soaked dat bad. " soaked? Jack? Race's heart rate sped up. 

"I'm jist tellin' ya what I hoid, Spot." Race made a little noise as if he were just waking up and Spot instantly hushed the boy. Race opened his eyes and sat up, smiling at Spot. 

"I'm goin' on da roof, Spot." He said, grabbing a cigar. Spot made a move to follow him, but stopped. Race was relieved. As he made his way up the stairs, Spot pushed one of his boys behind him. 

"Stay in da shadows, if he goes anywhera, let me know." The boy nodded and disappeared down the hall. 

Race took several long breathes on the cigar. If it was true, and Jack had gotten soaked, than it was Race's fault. He felt horrible, God knows what else had happened in the time he'd been gone. He should have told Jack, he sighed and let his head fall onto the stone railing around the roof. 

He should just make sure. It wasn't that long of a walk, just across the Brooklyn Bridge. That was all.  Just a quick walk and he could make sure that everyone was all right. Yes, that sounded good. 

He checked behind him, and saw no one. That didn't mean there wasn't anyone there. Race had found that out the hard way when he'd tried to slip away a few days ago. 

Gently he eased himself onto the ledge and swung his feet, as if he were just looking at the stars. Then slowly, he lowered himself onto the fire escape below. You could get into the dorm room from the fire escape, and Race knew that. But he slipped past the lightened room and made his way down to the streets below.    

He crossed the bridge with little problems, making his way to Duane Street with practiced ease and stealth. He had almost made it to the lodging house when a voice caused his blood to freeze in his veins. 

"Well, well, well, if it ain't little Tony Cammarata." Slowly, he turned. Sure enough, King was standing there, his goons slowly emerging from the shadows to surround Race. King held his lead pipe in his heads, and smacked it against his palm. Race refused to think about it impacting something else, like his head. 

"Me name is Racetrack Higgins. Get it right, King."  He growled, knowing it was a mistake and caring even less. King only laughed and stepped forward. Race glanced up at the lodging house windows. They were lit and open. He was determined to raise his voice. Maybe the other boys would hear. 

"I knew ya'd come. As soon as I started dat rumor bout Kelly, I knew you'd be back. " 

"Rumoa? Jack's all right?' he asked, breathlessly. Goddamn it! It had been a trap! Why didn't he listen to Spot?" Race inwardly moaned. King shrugged.

"I don't know and I don't cae. All I cae about is havin' me little Tony back wid us." Race backed away. 

"I ain't goin', King!" he yelled, hoping someone would hear.  King's grin faded.  He took a step forward and motioned to his boys, two of whom stepped forward and grabbed Race's arms. Race struggled as hard as he could, but their grips were iron. 

"Oh yes, ya are." King laughed, showing off his rotten teeth. Race looked disgusted and turned his head. 

"Oh no, he ain't!" Everyone spun around to see the Lower Manhattan Newsies looking anything but pleased, standing in front of their lodging house, armed with sticks and clubs.  Jack stood in the lead, looking angrier than Race had seen him since the strike. 

"Try and stop me, Kelly." King said, grabbing Race. Race twisted out of his grip. The boys who had held him were too surprised at the appearance of the Manhattan boys to do much about it. 

"I ain't goin' back, King!" Race yelled at the top of his lungs. "Ya must tink I'm mad! Why would I wanna go back so'se ya can moida me too?" he glared at King who seemed a bit put out at his words.  He nodded to the boys, who attacked swiftly. 

In an instant, they'd grabbed Jack, before he or anyone else could do anything, and held him in a tight lock. King strode up to him and grabbed Jack's hair, yanking his face up and exposing his throat. Race froze. 

"Say one moa woid, Higgins, and it'll be da last ting Kelly hears." Race glanced from King to Jack. Jack looked furious, struggling against his captors. The Manhattan boys looked angrier than Jack if that was possible. 

But Race wasn't to be quieted so easily. A saying was running through his head, something he'd heard not so long ago and come to believe in reverently '_All it takes is a voice, one voice that becomes a hundred, and then a thousand. Unless it's silenced."_

No one was going to silence this voice. "Killin' Jack ain't gonna make me shut up, King! It ain't gonna make dem ferget what I say! Ya can't keep me silent no moa!" King tightened his hold on Jack's hair, but he said nothing.  "Let Jack go!" Race yelled, "or I'll yell it right ea' right now! And I ain't kiddin', King! Let him go!"  

King eyed the younger boy, who stood in front of him, his fists clenched, his dark eyes blazing, and his mouth open, ready and willing to tell the world. King nodded and the boys let Jack go. He stumbled forward, towards Race, but the boy did not seem to notice him.  His whole concentration was focused on King, on not leaping at him and taking him out with his bare hands. 

King glared back. "So ya comin' or not, kid?" Race stared at him and laughed. He laughed right in King's face. No one had ever done that, ever. And it infuriated the Queens leader. 

"Ya tink dis is funny, Higgins?" Race shook his head. 

            "Hardly. I ain't goin' widcha, King. I wusn't plannin' on it. I'se happy right ea, widout da problem of worryin' bout somebody moiderin' me in me sleep. Or on da streets, but dat's your specialty, ain't it?" 

            Everyone watched the two of them. King's eyes were flashing, and so were Race's. It was a stand off. Only one of them would come out of this a winner, and the other, probably dead. 

            "Whudda ya talkin' about, Race?" Jack asked quietly. Race growled at King. 

            "He's a moidera!" Race's voice carried across the street, to the approaching Brooklyners, Spot in the lead. But they stopped when they heard his voice. It was as if the whole city was watching the two boys circle each other, waiting for the final inevitable match.  Even the Queens boys were looking at their leader in surprise. 

            "Yeah, ya hoid me! Ya tink I don't memba Lissy?" He yelled. Several Queens boys glanced at each other, remembering the rich girl who had taken a liking to the boys of Queens. "Ya tink I don't memba dat night?" Race shouted.  He could have been whispering and everyone would have heard him plain and clear. This time, he did. 

            "I rememba, I rememba everytin'. I rememba how she used ta bring me candy and hide it so'se ya couldn't see. I rememba how she used ta tell me all about school and all da places she'd been and promise ta take me back to Italy one day.  I rememba how I hoid her scream, and came runnin' ta help her. I rememba seein ya standin' ova her, raisin' dat pipe ova her head, den bringin' it down. I rememba hearin' her screams die as she did, and den I rememba ya spittin' on her body!" 

            Jack looked at Race. The boy's eyes were dull and glazed as if he wasn't seeing what was right in front of him, but instead, a scene from half a lifetime ago. 

            "I rememba ya toinin' around and seein' me. Ya had blood on yer shirt, her blood. Ya saw me and ya came afta me, swearin' ya'd beat me brains in too. I ran, but ya came afta me. Ya chased me almost tree blocks befora I reached da bridge. Ya stopped dere, but ya swore ya'd find me and kill me woise den ya killed her. Ya promised." 

            " And I always keep me woid!" King's voice interrupted Race's trance and he looked up to see a gun in King's hand. There was a collective gasp, It was a given to expect clubs, sticks, or slingshots when dealing with Brooklyn. But none of the newsies used guns. It was just accepted fact. 

            King's aim was pointed at Race, but he smiled and turned the gun on Jack. Race saw it and before he had time to think, he charged King, shoving the gun up into the air, causing the shot to go wide. 

            King growled and smacked Race with the butt of the gun, but Race refused to let go. He faintly heard yelling, but his whole world consisted forcing the gun away from his face and into that of his enemy's. But it seemed that King had the same idea. He shoved the gun downwards. 

            The gun went off with a bang and both combatants paused. Race glanced down and saw no blood on King, but he glanced up and saw King take control of the gun one more time, pointing it right into his face. 

            Everything seemed to slow down, as Race saw his finger tighten on the trigger. Race's hand shot up and shoved the barrel of the gun to the side, just as it went off. 

            Instantly, the grip around his throat lessened and the hand slipped away entirely. Race watched in horror as the man dropped to the ground, bleeding from a hole in his neck. 

            He wrapped his hands around himself and stared in disbelief at the body on the ground. His head seemed to be swimming, even as he felt Jack take him by the shoulder and lead him back towards the lodging house. 

            But his legs felt heavy and weak. He raised his hand to stop Jack, to pause for a moment and let the world stop spinning. But a flash of red caught his eye. He raised his hand and saw that it was covered with red. 

            Slowly, he became aware of a damp feeling in his lower left side. He touched it and felt a sudden burning pain spread up his side. He collapsed as his knees gave out, drawing him into sudden and merciful darkness.


	6. What Jack Saw

**Well, only one part left! Oh sadness! But then it's on to another story. I have too much free time. No, I really don't. it's more like I have too many nights writing till midnight. **

**Disclaimer: if you don't know by now, I ain't tellin' ya. **

Jack held his breathe as the first shot went off, then let it out when he saw both boys were still fighting, still struggling for the gun. Race was so much smaller, but he was quicker and that was good. 

            Jack would never really be sure what happened later, but when the gun went off a second time, they watched in utter awe as King dropped to the ground, leaving Race standing, staring, but alive. 

            Jack quickly leapt forward and took Race's shoulders, dragging him away. Race seemed sluggish and weak, but Jack supported him. Then he stopped moving altogether. 

            Jack turned to look at him and saw Race staring at his hand, which was dripping red with blood. His breathe quickened and he froze, praying that it was not Race's blood. 

            Race's face had turned deathly pale as he looked down and touched his side. Jack saw a sudden look of pain cross Race's face, just before his eyes rolled back and closed and he slipped out of his hands to the ground. 

            Jack was beside him in an instant, the rest of the boys behind him. Gently, he pulled back Race's vest, already damp and sticky, to reveal a growing red stain on his side, previously hidden by the dark vest. 

            "Somebody get a docta!" he yelled. Someone got up, but who Jack didn't notice, and didn't really care. Race's blood was pooling in a puddle behind him. Jack yanked open the shirt, exposing the wound and winced at the gruesome sight.  He yanked off his vest, staunching the wound. 

            Soon his own vest was just as covered and Blink handed him a clean rag, which he pressed, praying it would stop the blood. Someone pushed the boys aside and took Jack's hand away. 

            He looked up to see a young man with calm gray eyes and a determined look on his face. The man was dressed in only a robe and his pajamas, but he seemed no less able than anyone else. Besides, anything to stop the blood. 

            "Gunshot?" he asked. Jack nodded. "Let's get him inside." Jack lifted Race gently and carried him inside. Kloppman quickly waved them in, offering the use of his own downstairs bedroom. 

            Race was laid down on the single bed and quickly stripped of his shirt and vest. The doctor took careful time to press heavy gauze around the wound and to clean it, all the while ignoring Jack and Spot. Kloppman ushered the other newsies outside and closed the door.  

            Jack watched, feeling helpless and frightened for the first time in so long. Spot must have known this, because he put his hand on Jack's shoulder. 

            "I'm sorry, Jack." Jack turned to him. "He slipped out cause he wus worried bout ya." 

            "Me?' Jack asked, confused. 

            "Yeah, someone started some rumoa dat you wus hoit. Race wanted ta make surah youse was okay." Jack nodded. "I'm sorry I couldn't' keep him safe fer youse." Jack shook his head, waving Spot's apology away. 

            "Weren't yer fault. At least he's dead now." But what about Race? It was the unspoken question between them.  The doctor stood up and sighed. Jack instantly was beside  him. 

            "Well?" the doctor looked at him. 

            "Well, he's lost a lot of blood. Luckily the  bullet went right through him, instead of lodging inside. If it did, you'd be looking at an operation, an expensive one. But he's a lucky one. The danger is not over yet. If he survives tonight, he should make it. Wash the wound and keep changing the dressings if the blood starts to leak through. Keep him cool, and try to talk to him. He needs to fight this fever.  If there is any change, please let me know immediately.' Then he left Jack alone. Spot followed him out, clapping a hand on Jack's shoulder. 

            Jack sat down beside Race and pulled the covers up, covering the wound. Slowly, he dabbed a warm cloth on Race's forehead, keeping him cool. The fever had already begun its course as Race began to sweat, a thin sheen covering his body. 

            "I'm so sorry, Race. I failed ya, ' Jack whispered. "I tried ta keep ya safe and I failed. I told ya I'd neva let anyone hoitcha. And look what happened. Youse was da one who kept yerself safe.  And ya came back fer me." he titled Race's head back so the cool water could slip down his throat. "Jist live, Race. Come back to us and play yer dumb games, smoke dose huge cigars, put odds on everytin', and  jist be our Racetrack again." 

            Jack had never been a believer, never in his  life. Seeing his mother beaten to death by his father at the young age of seven was enough to led a boy to believe that the Almighty had more important things to do than listen to the prayers of street trash like himself. He had never been inside a church, not since his mother's funeral. He always thought that it was better to rely on himself than on someone sitting up in the clouds that had never given him a dime. 

            But that night, Jack Kelly prayed for the first time in his life. They were only four little words, but for Jack, it was his only lifeline. He whispered it over and over to himself or to some unseen power, he didn't know. Four little words that might save a life and had already saved a soul. 

            "Please let him live." 

             He didn't even notice when David's mother came in and led him out the door, up to his own room. 

*************************************************************************************

September 24, 1899

Jack blinked and frowned when he found himself back in his own bunk. Groaning, he rubbed his eyes and frowned. 

Then he remembered. Quickly, he leapt out of bed and dived at the bed below Blinks. There was no one in it, hadn't been for days. Jack hurried downstairs, horrified at the sight of twenty solemn and tear stained faces. He pushed past Davy to run down the hall to the door, just as Sarah, Davy's sister and his girl, closed it behind her. 

"Sarah?' he asked. 

"Jack!" She seemed surprised and raised a hand to stop him. "Jack, you can't go in there!" his worst fears instantly sprung to the front of his mind and Jack pushed past her. He burst in to see Spot, franticly wiping at his eyes. 

"No!" Jack shook his head, praying it wasn't true. 

"Hey Cowboy," a soft and hoarse voice made him look down at the bed. Race was sitting up, propped up by too many pillows, looking pale and weak, but alive. His eyes were their normal dark brown and his face no longer showed the signs of fever. 

"Race! Youse alive!" He almost dove on the younger boy and would have had he not remembered the reason he was in that bed at all. 

"You have prefect timing, Jack." Mrs. Jacobs said. " I was just about to send Spot up for you."  Jack knelt in front of Race, grinning. He pressed his hand against the boy's forehead and was relieved to feel  no excess heat. 

"How ya feelin', Race?" Race shrugged than winced. 

"Dey ain't lettin' me play cards, Jack."  Spot laughed. If Race was thinking about cards, then he would recover just fine. 

"Let's wait a bit, let ya get a bit mora rest. Den I promise ta play poka widcha." Race laughed. And at the so welcome sound, Jack had to laugh too. 

*****************************************************************


	7. Christmas Present

Here it is, the last part! Very short, but basically gives closure to the story. I just finished another, and have a short story that deals with Vinnie again to put out. 

God the ideas just keep coming! I'm in such a writing mode right now! See, it's like this and then I won't write something big for a month or two. Don't ask me. 

Anyway, thank you so much for all your reviews, T.H., Lysaka, races-goil-only, Kora, and all you others. You guys really help me. And T.H., I can't wait to read your story, go write! Go! Shoo! Hehehe. 

I had a lot of fun writing this one and teasing my friends about what was going to happen. Cya! 

*****************************************************************

It was almost three month later when Jack awoke in the middle of the night.  What had awoken him, he wasn't sure. 

Maybe it was the bright stream of light drifting through the open window. Open? Grumbling, Jack slipped out of bed and wandered to the window. The chilly winter wind was blowing in, but it did not have the same biting cold as usual. There was something calming in the air tonight.  He shivered but closed the window. 

When he turned around, he was due for a shock. A young woman was in the room, walking without a sound down the rows of bunks, looking at each of the boys sleeping faces. She paused at the one below and beside Jack's. 

Slowly, he made his way closer. He saw her bend over Racetrack's face, brushing his bangs out of his face. The moonlight seemed to illuminate the boy's face, making him seem almost angelic.  The woman planted a kiss on Race's forehead and the boy stirred in his sleep, but did not wake. 

She whispered something to him that made him smile gently, but Jack could not hear. With one final kiss, and a touch of her hand to his chest, she stood up. 

Jack thought she might be angry or frightened when she saw him, but she only smiled. She moved forward and Jack wondered if she was really walking, her feet made no sound. 

Her long skirt blew about her as if there was some light breeze. Her long black hair was tied in a simple bun and she seemed not too much older than himself. Her eyes seemed so familiar, Jack thought, though he couldn't place them. there was some sort of strange unearthly light about her. She smiled gently at him. Then she reached out and touched his forehead. 

"Ringraziarlo, Kelly di Cricco. Maggio Dio lo benedice sempre." The words were spoken in a voice like the wind and just as soft.  The translation was lost on Jack, but the meaning was clear.  

Then she led him back to his bunk and he climbed in, suddenly so very tired.  She put her finger to her lips and smiled. Jack nodded and closed his eyes. 

*************************************************************

December 25, 1899. 

Jack yawned as someone shook him awake. He waved the tormentor away, but the noise didn't stop. 

"Jack! Get up! Get up! It snowed!" Jack opened one eye to glare at Boots, but grudgingly got to his feet. He let his legs dangle off the bed as the younger kids ran downstairs and the older ones stumbled out of bed, or rolled over for an extra minute of sleep. 

Beside him, Race rolled over and got to his feet. He looked behind him at Jack and grinned. Then he frowned. 

"Whut?" Jack asked. Race frowned again as he twisted his upper body around.  Jack shook his head. 

"Don't to dat Race, you'll hoit yerself again." Everyone knew that Race was still sore when he turned around or used his side muscles. But this time, Race ignored him and did it again. 

"But it don't hoit, Jack." He said, turning to Jack and bending over, testing it again. Jack frowned, then suddenly the previous night came back to him. He stared at the window, just as Blink hurried from the washroom. 

"Come on, guys!' he said, grinning. "It snowed!" Snow? Hadn't the moon been shining so bright last night? There wasn't a hint of a cloud in the sky. 

"But the moon was out last night. It couldn't snow." Blink shrugged. 

"Moon or not, it snowed. It's cold enough." 

"And how would ya know?" Race asked from where he was touching his toes, still perplexed about his mysterious cure. He eyed Blink, still clothed in his long johns. 

"Because some bum left da window open." Jack froze, staring at Blink as he hurried to get dressed. Race had finally given up and had grabbed his shirt. 

He had just pulled on his vest when Jack spoke to him. 

"Race, what does ringraziarlo, Kelly di Cricco. Maggio Dio lo benedice sempre mean?"  Race paused and frowned at him. He hoped the boy's Italian was still fresh in his mind. 

"Kelly di Cricco, well, dat's your name. Jack Kelly. And da rest? Ringraziarlo means tank ya, and maggio Dio lo benedice sempre means May God bless ya always. So I guess it means, Thank you, Jack Kelly. May God bless you always."  He stared at his friend, confused. Jack did not often ask him to translate things in Italian. 

Jack turned to him, a strange look in his eyes.  Those eyes, the woman's strange brown eyes were gazing back at him, from the face of his friend. Race blinked as Jack stared at him. 

"What?" he asked, feeling uncomfortable.

"Your eyes, Race. Where'd ya get dem?" Race gave him a long look, as if trying to figure out just why Jack was asking him these strange questions. 

"From me mudda." He said, before shaking his head and sitting down to pull on his shoes. 

"Where's she now?" now Race was very confused. Families were a closed subject here. if you had one, great. If not, you weren't alone. Most boys wanted to forget they had ever been anything but the person they were  in those walls. 

"Dead. Along wid da rest a' me family."  Jack nodded. There was a long pause. Neither boy noticed the room empty. Jack only sat with a strange mystified expression and Race  finished getting dressed. 

Just before he placed his cap on his head, he turned around to face Jack one more time. 

"Why?"  Jack looked at him,  as if he were seeing a ghost. Then he smiled slowly, as if understanding had suddenly dawned. 

"No reason." 


End file.
